The Distant Threshold
The rain did not fall so much as it settled, a grey, suspended dust that coated the windows of the old manor house in a film of condensation, blurring the world outside into a smear of charcoal and mud, while inside, the air was thick with the scent of wet wool, stale tobacco, and the particular, cloying sweetness of decay that only a house long left to its own devices could possess, a house...
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